


Dinner for Eight

by disquisitemind



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disquisitemind/pseuds/disquisitemind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tain always swore that he wouldn't be caught dead at a buffet.  Garak liked to prove Tain wrong in many instances, but that wasn't necessarily one he had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Star Trek AU: Same Stardate, Different Universe. You don’t have to worry about the particulars, because they aren’t very important. Just know that across galaxies, universes, even dimensions, some things never change.

Smoke litters the air, a pungent stench of ash and distilled sorrow coating the walls of the club. The lights dim, Quark pours a cheap drink for his favorite customer, giving a small nod to Julian as he passes. He gives the bartender a small wave and continues on his way toward the corner of the room, secluded from wandering gazes and curious glances.

His companion is already there, waiting, which isn’t surprising. Thursday is usually a slow day for him, and he knows Garak looks forward to their little rendezvous. “Your usual?” Julian takes a small delight in the way that he jumps to his voice. It isn’t often that Julian gets the slip on his friend.

Giving him a sheepish glance, he answers, “If you would.” Julian turns to leave, but Garak catches his hand, “Make it a double. It’s been long day.”

The jukebox is always finicky with his change. Julian brings a full coin purse with him on Thursdays, but the machine seems to enjoy eating every last one of them, only deciding to exchange his penny fairly for music by the time his purse is empty. Julian considers that this design flaw is most likely a purposeful execution of Quarks. The greedy bastard. He has half a mind to make a complaint, and threaten to take his business elsewhere. However, this is the only place that Garak agrees to meet him.

It might’ve been the seclusion, the dirty countertops, the acquisitive proprietor, but Garak deems Quarks the safest building on the Bajoran-Cardassian border, no matter the amount of shady deals that go down there.

Julian pulls down the lever, stuffing his empty coin purse in his satchel, and soft music battles forward against the smoky air. He traces his way back to the empty seat across from his friend, sitting down for the first time that day, with a small sigh. They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the slightly out of tune music.

Garak picks silently at the small traces of dirt underneath his claws, his hands calloused in a way that Julian only sees on the Bajoran patients that he meets on his rounds. Julian fights the urge to push up Garak’s sleeve, by just the slightest amount and catch a glimpse of his cool gray skin, the back of Garak’s hand coming closer to a dark charcoal every time Julian sees him.

No matter how often Garak insists that gardening suits him quite well, thank you, Julian can see the small traces of boredom line the crinkle in his eyes, he can see the tension building behind the fingers that instinctively flex at every slight commotion, his polite demeanor easily falling to a rising temper. Garak isn’t built for complacency.

Julian picks up the drink that Garak probably ordered for himself and swallows it in one go.

His friend doesn’t protest, only comments, “Have a long day as well?”

Julian snorts and shakes his head in exhaustion. “More like a long week.” He turns Garak’s cup in his hand, and studies the small beads of alcohol that roll down the sides of the glass. “I delivered a baby on a shuttle run yesterday.” He comments offhandedly, the bottom of the glass becoming more disappointing by the second.

“I’m assuming it was a Bajoran delivery?” Garak waves Quark for two more drinks, only receiving a nod in acknowledgement.

“That would be correct.” Julian toasts with Garak’s empty glass.

Garak shakes his head at Julian’s light folly, “A Bajoran birth on a shuttle run? How did you possibly manage to keep her relaxed during that?”

“Well, one passenger had some incense, and we used my medkit as a drum, and then we pretended the turbulence was just a wave on the spiritual oceans of the prophets.” It had been more difficult than he recounted, but Julian always enjoys that little look that Garak gives him, a look of horror and amusement that is irreplaceably sweet .

Just to tease, Julian continues, “To be fair, in light of the recent events, the shuttle runner did make a rest stop, and we were able to get some light snacks afterward. The father was unconscious at the time. We did get him some water, but then again, we poured the water all over him to wake him up.”

Garak laughs, a musical lilt to his voice that makes Julian want to hide his face in embarrassment and say something even more ridiculous. As Garak’s laughter dies down he pauses, an inquisitive eye ridge raised, “I don’t remember you mentioning an out of town patient.”

Julian sighs, old worries quickly rising back to the surface. “My dad.” He explains simply.

“Ah yes, the prodigal father returns.” Garak nods, “The federation is letting you back into its borders for that?”

“It’s a temporary visa.” Julian smiles bitterly. “Mum can’t go pick him up, and the Federation isn’t too keen on keeping him in their borders longer than they have to.”

“Ever the humanitarians.” Garak comments as Quark hurries over, two drinks in hand. “Are they at your apartment now?”

“In my apartment, in my sock drawers, in my fridge... Mother is easy to live with, if a bit invasive, but my dad so far has picked apart every single thing in my house, in my job, my friends, my life. He was so much easier to live with across the border.” Julian pauses as Quark silently places their drinks on the table, leaving just as quickly as he came. “You know what I don’t understand? He literally engineered himself the perfect son, and I’m still not good enough.”

“I could say the same for Tain.” Garak salutes, refilled drink in hand.

“Cheers.” Julian salutes in return, picking up his drink. They clink glasses quietly in empathy, worn observations and moods overturned continuously between them throughout the years. Julian raises the glass to his lips, the alcohol smelling faintly of failed obligations, his tongue heavy with regrets, his stomach filled with what ifs.

Julian isn’t particularly thirsty anyway. He returns the glass to it’s place on the table, the beverage untouched. He glances up to see that Garak had done the same, eyes unfocused, mind lost in the swirl of the Cardassian Sunrise.

“Elim.”

Garak blinks slowly, then raises his gaze to meet Julian’s, eye-ridges lazily curved in inquiry, then shrugs. “Tain is a talented man.”

Julian has a special talent for categorizing relationships and patterns, and that particular voice of Garak’s appears on many occasions. Most notably, it appears when Julian forgets to put the dishes into the replicator after Garak had asked him to twice, and “was not going to ask” him again.

It isn’t a tone that Julian’s fond of, and it isn’t a tone that Julian would allow to escalate. It’s difficult for Garak to effectively express his emotions when he’s angry. It is never just one event, it is many. It’s a series of little instances that stew under his usually calm demeanor, swirling together in a little category of “Things I Will Not Let Bother Me.”

There is always a breaking point to which that category becomes, “Things that Insanely Bother Me.” Julian has enough experience to know when that breaking point occurs. He reaches over and clasps Garak’s right hand, squeezing lightly, “Specific instances, dear.”

Apparently, Garak doesn’t need any other encouragement, and immediately launches, “Just the other day I walked in on him absolutely livid with Mila because apparently she shelved a book he was reading. She just had her eightieth birthday, she hardly knows where she lives, let alone has the right mind to do light housework.

“I give him the benefit of the doubt, and I ask him what he was reading, so I can go get it for him. I know my library forward and backward, and I do not own _Flowers off Hinges_. I tell him this. He looks at me, and stalks out of the room, into our backyard, and tramples my garden! ” Julian shakes his head in sympathy, Garak’s hand clenching Julian’s a bit painfully. “If he yells at Mila one more time, I will drop him off at the orphanage, I do not care how old he is. And if he walks over my garden one more time, he will become apart of it.”

Garak leans back against his seat, then picks up his glass with his open hand and finishes off the beverage in one go. He swears lightly, and rubs his temple, leaning forward on the table top once again. He shakes his head and continues, voice subdued, “Speaking of Tain, I have a favor to ask, before I forget.” Julian motions for him to continue. “It’s his heart. Normally I wouldn’t ask, but he’s been getting worse-”

Julian waves the thought away, “Give me a time and place, and I’ll be there.” He promises.

“Thank you.” He dips his head, cooling off slightly, “It’s hard finding anyone even willing to take a look at him, let alone treat him.” Garak pulls away, and leans back into his seat, eyes trained on his empty glass, not particularly distressed.

“Well, meeting him that one time was a nightmare. Can’t say I blame them.” Julian jibes, albeit humorlessly. Garak shrugs in agreement, as _if to say it is what it is_. It’s the kind of shrug that seems to identify both of their lives.

“He brings it on himself,” Garak complains quietly. “The man has no respect for anything but himself. I’ve learned to live with feeling like a guest in my own home, but I draw the line at my garden.”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why you let him live with you. The constant criticism, the constant heartache, you deserve better.” Julian asserts, perhaps a bit of judgement finding its way into his tone.

“Yes, thank you Julian.” Garak responds sarcastically, looking a bit put out. He then pauses in realization, “And may I ask just what you owe your father?”

Julian crosses his arms, face contorted in indignation, “Well…” After a few moments he acquits, “Fine, yes, I see your point.”

Garak purses his lips in a small smile, a familiar look of self-fellation. “Thank you.”

Julian reigns in his annoyance, figuring if there is anytime to ask, it would be when Garak is stupidly smug, “You know, since I’m doing you a favor, maybe you could do me a favor.”

Garak pauses in consideration, “What did you have in mind?”

“Can your garden survive without you for a few days?” Julian inquires, carefully keeping his gaze off of Garak.

Garak clucks indignantly, “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s just for a weekend. No one will see you come in or out, I promise.” He pleads quietly, well aware of the ears that always seem glued to the walls at Quarks. “I’ve missed you.” Julian adds softly, touching Garak’s hand lightly. Then with a small smile jokes, “My mother says you’re the only one in the sector that makes red leaf tea right.”

Smiling in spite of himself, Garak replies, “You live in the Bajoran sector, my dear.”

“Then it must be true!”

A fond smile overtakes his annoyance. Garak reluctantly complies, “Very well. The usual time?”

Julian nods, checking his watch. “I’ll pick you up then.” He scoots out from the booth. “I better go before Dad starts going through my medical cabinet.”

Garak follows his lead and rises up to meet him, getting a closer look of his companion for the first time that evening. His eye ridges pull forward thoughtfully as he cups Julian’s jaw in his hands, tilting it ever so slightly. “What’s this?” He asks, leaning forward to get a closer look.

Embarrassed, he allows Garak’s inspection, and insists, “It’s nothing. You know how it is.” There is a small pause as Garak lightly strokes the blossoming bruise, and Julian nervously continues, “Hey watch it. Terran’s are very delicate.”

“It shows.” Garak huffs in disapproval, pulling back slightly, settling one hand on the small of his back.

Julian’s eyes narrow. “Don’t give me that look. I know what you’re thinking. It was one of the outreach patients. It was this someone that I’ve been checking up on every week. He wanted to go back outside and start working again, but he didn’t do any of the exercises I prescribed. He didn’t like that I told him another week of bedrest.” Julian huffs and shifts into a more comfortable position. “He got a good shot in before his mother barged in. He said that along with my poor skills as a doctor, I gave him a look.”

Garak’s hand tightens, pulling him closer. Unamused, he asks, “And what look was that?”

“I’m assuming he was referring to my dark eyes and the chip on my shoulder.” Julian teases lowly.

Leaning upward, Garak kisses the bruise lightly, cupping the nape of Julian’s neck, “Dark eyes indeed.”

Allowing Garak to continue his ministrations, Julian continues, “On the bright side, this event has challenged me to turn to alcohol and become a writer.”

His lover snorts a laugh, and in a practiced motion traces his nose down Julian’s cheek toward his jawline. “What did your mother have to say about all this?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Julian relaxes in Garak’s arms, “She’s disappointed in me. She liked bragging to all of her friends that I was a doctor, even if I was an exiled one. A writer doesn’t sound as prestigious, I think.”

Garak flicks behind his ear, “The bruise, Julian.”

He shrugs self-consciously, “She said that I ought to mind my own business.”

“No wiser words were said.”

Julian’s forehead creases in skepticism, “You’re one to talk.”

“You should learn from your elder’s mistakes, Julian.” Garak tutts, then leans forward for a short kiss.

“Not that old,” Julian mumbles against his lips, a small smile appearing in spite of his tired eyes.

Garak pulls back, once again caught on the bluish bruise that lined his cheek. “If you lived with me-”

“Then I’d be living with Tain,” Julian interrupts, “and then Tain would be living with my parents. God, what a nightmare.”

“Julian they aren’t just going to go away,” Garak insists, his lips pursed into a tight grimace.

“I know. I know they aren’t. It’s just...prospects.”

“We’ll talk more about it this weekend, alright?”

“Yes, alright.” Julian agrees, more as a way out than anything else.

They share one last kiss goodbye.

“Isn’t this the sweetest thing you ever saw?”

Both turn in one motion to see Dukat standing in the bar’s doorway, light flooding into the sunless domain. There is a cock in his hip to project power and condescension. Julian thinks he just looks constipated. Although, that might be due to the incredibly too tight pants. Julian’s caught between covering his eyes or Garak’s, luckily he has two hands.

Dukat slams the club’s door shut behind him, enveloping the room in low, artificial light once again. He swaggers toward the corner of the bar, where they stand, huddled together. “Garak, how nice to see you again! Still a low life gardener?”

Garak pulls away from Julian and steps in front of him, the corners of his lips pulling into a smile as real as Quarks advertised Dabo Girls. “Dukat, always a pleasure! Still trying to wear skin tight pants?”

Dukat’s smile swarmes its way around them, smelling faintly of the slime that seems to seep out of the club’s walls, “Slumming it with the dirty bajorans, I see.” He comments, ignoring Garak’s jibe. “Doctor Bashir,” He greets, “still can’t do any better than a sterile ex-spy?”

Julian crosses his arms to stop him from doing something truly stupid, and decides to skip over the part where he reminds Dukat for the _millionth time,_ that he’s not Bajoran. “Well, I decided it was easier than paying child support to ten different women that I still can’t tell apart.”

Dukat’s jaw drops in disbelief, and Quark steps in before something unfortunate occurs like broken bones, or something even worse: _Broken merchandise_. “Gentlemen, Gentlemen, there are enough seats for everybody in the house. No need for any blood to spill, or alcohol,” he adds, looking directly at Julian, and for god sake it was one time. One time!

“Dukat what do you want?” Julian demands, ignoring Garak’s annoyed glance, and Quarks exasperated huff of despair.

“You talk like a boy whose ridges have yet to form.” Dukat gives him a once over, “And I see that they still haven’t.”

“Nice one. Does your father tell that to you often?”

Usually Garak admires Julian’s persistent, Terran charm, but at the moment, he’s doing his best to signal, _Don’t you dare embarrass me_. Garak doesn’t think that it’s working.

“While this is a delightful exchange, Julian and I are needed elsewhere.” Garak resolves uncharacteristically, pulling his friend to his side, trying to bypass the taller Cardassian.

Dukat laughs in good-humor, “Don’t leave on my account! There is actually something I’d like to discuss with you,” He adds, peculiarly serious, “If you have a moment.” Garak pauses, hand still tightly wound around Julian’s wrist, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“You followed me here.” He accuses, inching toward the door, deliberating over what exactly he did recently to warrant Dukat taking the time to find him. Is it possible for Dukat to figure out that it’s Garak that spiked his drink with laxatives three years ago? Julian inches closer to his lover, deliberating whether it’s possible for Dukat to figure out that it’s Julian who provided those same laxatives.

Dukat crosses his arms uncomfortably, and in an atypical bout of childishness announces, “Ziyal claims to be in love with you, and I am here to inquire your intentions toward her.”

_What?_

“You know Ziyal is more than twenty years younger than you, right?” Julian asks, face contorted with mild disgust.

“ _Julian_.” Garak warns sharply, then turns to Dukat, “Obviously my hands are full. I have no intentions toward your daughter, but friendship.”

“Then was she seen leaving your home last evening?” Dukat demands, walking into their space.

Julian perks up in astonishment, and turns toward Dukat, feeling stupefied at his shamelessness, “Are you following your daughter around?”

Dukat snaps to Julian, eyes narrowed, like he spots a particularly annoying fly. “Let’s just say that I have my sources.”

“You have _Damar_ following your daughter around?” Julian amends, disbelief still crowding his features.

“What?” Dukats’ face scrunches together at the incredulous accusation, “Absolutely not!”

“Damar must be really low on cases.” Garak comments aside to Julian, who nods in sympathy.

“I did not hire Damar!”

Julian extends his hands, palms directed toward the floor, and appeals slowly, “Just because Damar saw Ziyal leaving Garak’s house, does not mean that he has any intentions toward her. From what Garak has told me, Ziyal likes to come and go as she pleases. Besides, Garak only dates doctors. He has very specific taste.”

Garak nods in agreement, “Julian’s right, she stopped by because she wanted to borrow a novel that I told her about.”

Dukat regards them, unsure, and interrogates, “And it’s true, you only date doctors?” Garak shakes his head in denial.

“It’s true,” Julian cuts in. “He’ll deny it, but it is one hundred percent true. Trust me, I’m a doctor.” Dukat looks skeptical, and Julian persists, “If there’s anyone’s intentions you should be worried about, it should be Damar’s. He’s the one that agreed to follow Ziyal around, even though you never hired him.”

Dukat reflects on this insight. “I don’t believe that Ziyal came over to just ‘borrow a book’,” he begins slowly, still assessing them in distaste, “however the fact that Garak only dates doctors does convince me that his intentions might be harmless.”

Garak rolls his eyes, and Julian jabs him in the ribs. Eyes pulling into a persuasive honesty, Julian guarantees, “You won’t have to worry about Garak whatsoever. Ziyal just has a little crush, that’s all.”

“Very well.” Dukat decides, “But if I find out that anything is going on otherwise, I will kill both of you.” He then turns on his heel and makes his way toward the door. Stopping just before the exit, he turns his head slightly, shadowed by the wall, “Enjoy your evening.” He leaves.

The club is shadowed in silence once again, the jukebox’s music finished a long time before.  
Julian turns toward Garak, “I think that went well.”

“It didn’t.” Garak and Quark reply simultaneously. Julian raises his eyes to Morn, sitting down the further end of the bar, who only shrugs.

“Everything is fine,” Julian insists, “Dukat is the least of our worries.”

* * *

Two days later, as Damar lays sprawled over Garak’s mentor, blood dripping from his nose onto Tain’s shirt, Amsha’s mouth open, aghast in shock, his father shoes covered in zabu stew, Ziyal’s skirt ripped up to her knee, and Dukat, still covered in fire extinguisher fluid, surveying a horizon of exploitation and burnt cookies, Julian reflects that he may have spoken too soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Garak’s heart is pounding, his lungs are constricting, and he just ran another red light. Wiping away a stray tear that shouldn’t be there, Garak knows that Julian is going to be mad. Unfortunately for Garak, that would be an understatement.

Julian is pissed.

After the first five minutes, Julian decides to be a mature adult and greet Garak with a ‘hello’ and ‘shall we get on then?’. After ten minutes, his expectant smile wavers into a worried grimace, half expecting to receive a call about an unfortunate traffic accident. Now, Julian has been waiting for twenty minutes, and by god he is so pissed.

Garak is late.

Julian considers that now might not be the time to start pointing fingers, but he told him the usual time, he _told_ him not to be late, but here Julian is, and here Garak isn’t.

Scratching at his arm, Julian feels undeniably nervous. _So much for Garak making a good impression_ , Julian thinks grimly, glancing back to ensign Colby for the third time. His shift had ended ten minutes ago, but he’s being a good sport about it, only flashing Julian impatient looks when he thinks that Julian can’t see him. It’s sort of adorable really, and Julian wonders vaguely what Ziyal would think of him.

The door opens and Julian starts, but the only one behind it is a visiting officer looking for the restroom. Julian points her down the hallway, and she thanks him and leaves, closing the door behind her.

It has been twenty-five minutes.

Julian discreetly smells his shirt and wonders if the transporter room’s smoky scent might create a viable excuse for being late due to a burning down building. He thinks it’s unlikely. What is likely is that Richard Bashir will have a field day when they arrive. He’ll take one glance at them and say, _Nice of you to join us! Been living here for five years and still can’t find your way around here, can you Jules?_

Julian would try to defend himself at this point, but his father would steamroll over him as usual and continue, _You know, the first thing I did when I got here? I looked at all the maps of the area, because you can’t always rely on technology to find your way around; the best tool of navigation is the brain. Just because I don’t have a big brain like you doesn’t mean there aren’t some things you can still learn from your old man. See, your problem is that you get so involved with numbers and what if’s that you don’t see what’s happening right in front of you. That’s just the kind of person I am. I actually live in reality._

_That’s ironic, seeing as though two days ago he actually lived in prison_ , Julian thinks bitterly. His father eats Julian’s food, sets his feet on Julian’s table, lives in Julian’s home, and is still married to Julian’s mother, and why is he getting so worked up about this? _This conversation didn’t happen_ , Julian reminds himself.

Oh, but it would. Richard loves to take every untouched moment to assert his dominance over his son, in every little petty way that comes to mind. Julian knows this, and yet thirty years later it still irks him to no end. Julian cannot believe he still lets his father get to him so easily, and he cannot believe that Garak is now a half-an-hour late!

Julian is thirty years old, Garak is thirty minutes late, and Richard Bashir will have a field day.

Ensign Colby discreetly checks his watch from his swivel chair, wisely keeping silent. Julian purses his lips into a grimace, fixing his eyes on the door, silently willing Garak to come through. To Julian’s surprise and Colby’s relief, the door opens in a rush, and Garak stumbles in by the force of his own momentum.

“Nice of you to join me!” Julian greets snippily, advancing upon him immediately, “I hope you’re happy, because we are going to be so late, we don’t even have time to get a drink first, which is something that I desperately need-”

“Julian, stop.” Garak crosses the room and grabs his friend by his shoulders. “We aren’t doing any of that. We’re not going to Bajor.”

The whirlwind of Garak’s entrance stills to a halt. Julian’s eyebrows shoot up in incredulity, “Excuse me?”

Garak freezes, as if suddenly aware that he is walking on very thin ice. Carefully, he asserts, “I’ll explain in a moment, but for now, we have to go.” He takes hold of Julian’s bicep, pulling him toward the exit.

Twisting out of his grip, Julian demands, “You will explain _now_.”

Garak realizes thirty minutes too late that he is not ready to have Julian angry with him, and he really ought to have thought this through.

“Hey guys, if you’re not using the transporter, I’m going to clock out.” Colby chimes in.

With the devil in his eyes, Julian points at the young officer, “ _Stay_.”

“Go.” Garak nods toward the door, angling his body toward Julian as some kind of shield if the ensign does try to escape.

Colby looks between them, torn. Then in a spell of diplomacy he decides, “I’ll give you guys another minute,” and sits back down at his seat.

Continuing where he had left off, Julian fires, “You promised to come today, you promised me a nice weekend. You can’t just change your mind last second, that’s not how this,” Julian gestures between them, “works. To think, I got you Delvian chocolates as a thank you!”

Garak’s hammering heart thuds to a stop, “You got me chocolates?” He asks, looking a bit touched.

“Not anymore. They’re mine now!” Julian says somewhat maniacally, coming nose to nose with Garak, his harsh breaths warm on his skin. _Garak looks terrible._ Julian thinks in a moment of clarity, up close, dizzy with nerves. His collar is misbuttoned, there are a couple loose hairs falling out from behind his ears, and his eyes are slightly red. Julian clicks his tongue and the fire inside whispers away. “Are you alright?” He asks, reluctantly concerned, bringing a hand up to tuck the wandering locks behind Garak’s earridge.

Garak waves him off, still out of breath, and insists, “We don’t have much time, we have to go, now.”

Julian’s brow burrows in confusion, “Go where?”

“We have to go back to my place,” Garak answers, once again making a motion to pull Julian toward the exit.

“Why?”

Garak sighs uncomfortably, the small semblance of composer he had slipping away easily, “Why is it impossible for you to just come along?”

“Why is it impossible for you to tell me what’s going on?”

Garak glances back at the ensign, who at the moment is politely pretending not to listen to their conversation, then back to Julian. He whispers, “Tain is dead, and we have to go bury his body.”

Julian pulls back, his breath taken away, the only word leaving his lips a stunned, “Oh.” Then after a moment of shocked silence, “Okay, then.” Swallowing the platitudes he knows Garak doesn’t want to hear he asks, “How did he die?”

“Poison.” Garak answers shortly.

“I see.” Julian replies, even though he doesn’t really see. Sensibly, he questions further, “Did you do it?”

Garak snorts, which is more emotion than Julian really expected to see. “Do you really think I’d be here if I did?”

He makes a good point, but Julian doesn’t really trust a murderer’s logic. “I don’t know Garak, are you feeling guilty?”

Garak takes this in good humor and replies back,“Do I look guilty?”

“Well, If I have to give an answer, I’d say yes, a bit guilty.”

With an aggravated noise, Garak informs him, “If you must know, my suspicions lie elsewhere.” Garak waves him closer and then whispers in a hushed tone, “Our culprit is someone vindictive, motivated, and with a lot of time on their hands.”

“You watched Mila poison him and you did nothing? You’re an accessory to murder!” Scandalized, Julian clutches at his chest. Garak lifts his right hand and clenches it, shaking his head toward Julian with the familiar ‘shut up’ motion.

“I didn’t see her do it. I believe someone else _did_ , however. Which is why we have to go, now.”

“Who saw her?”

“We don’t have much time until he wakes up.”

“Who wakes up?”

“It would be best if I explained on the way, come Doctor.”

After swiveling around in his seat for the seventh time, Colby slows to a stop to reign in his dizziness. The room is eerily silent. He looks around, only to see that Doctor Bashir and his boyfriend are gone. “Does this mean I can go?” He asks aloud. Colby only receives a stale silence in answer. Slowly getting up from his seat, he picks his jacket off the back of his chair.

Deciding that it is now or never, Colby makes a break for it. Little does he know, a certain Cardassian private detective makes the same decision.

* * *

Damar takes his job very seriously, even though most of it entails being an over-glorified photographer. That being said, none of his experiences have really prepared him for this.  
“Ow, ow ow ow ow.” Damar whines in the back of his throat, clutching his throbbing shoulder in pain. He reflects that this wasn’t one of his brighter ideas. Though, to be fair, it is hard to come up with a plan with a pounding headache and an empty stomach.

This is just what he gets for working for Dukat, the slimy bastard. He should have cut his losses after his last case, _Private Eye Gets an Eyeful_.

What a joke.

By that headline it sounds more like he saw a flasher rather than the pinkeye he contracted from following around Dukat’s secretary. No matter what, it seems that Dukat’s targets always lead him to worse and worse predicaments. First an eyeful of pinkeye, now an eyeful of murder.

However, he does accept that he is partially to blame. For instance, as he spied Mila hitting Tain’s dead body from their backyard bushes, he should not have confronted her. He also shouldn’t have yelled “Murder!” at the top of his lungs.

Hopefully someone wouldn’t be yelling that over his dead body.

He’s heard the rumors about Garak, but not all of them can be true? Right? There is no way that Garak is a Cardassian Spy War Prisoner from Bajor who broke out stealing international secrets and Bajoran hearts.

No way.

They fight with spears over there; spears and rocks. Well, Dukat says that, so it might not be true, seeing as though Dukat also says that Garak is actually just just a homeless gardener with no friends. Damar wonders whose closet he’s in then, and whose house he’s supposed to be spying on.

Enough idiocy, enough pussyfooting, he needs to get out.

He rummages in the back of his pocket. Situations like these call for extreme measures. He pulls out a small package and opens it, taking a bite out of the chocolate right away.

There isn’t much room to create a starting run, but perhaps if he leans against the back wall and kicks his leg out...Damar isn’t too convinced that kicking the door open will work, but he’s seen enough holovids to know that’s how things are done off the beat. Damar stuffs the rest of the chocolate in his mouth and assess the situation by doing some energizing squats.

One

Two

Three

He tries some kind of round-off kick, that really isn’t a round-off kick at all because it doesn’t exist, and the door slams open, almost bouncing off it’s hinges. Damar stares into the sunlit hallway in confusion, then checks the door, swinging it side to side wondering what exactly just occurred.

“How did that possibly work?” He asks himself, absolutely confounded, then gives a quick glance up and down the hallway to make sure that he’s alone.

_Garak must have left_ , he thinks to himself. _Probably buying a shovel to bury the body._ And suddenly it occurs to him that he is in the same house as a both a murderer and a dead guy, and escape seems like a much more imminent necessity. Damar closes the closet, then makes a left toward the end of the hallway, in the direction of the kitchen.

_There should be an exit right down this way, and then I can escape and give those photos to the police_. He freezes, realizing that he doesn’t have his camera. Torn between escaping empty handed or having the photos, he growls in frustration sits down cross-legged for a moment, to gather his thoughts.

Could he be so lucky for Garak to hide the camera and the cameraman together? Damar thinks not. Garak, as he so recently found out, is a tricky individual. No, the camera is in the last place that he would check, it’s somewhere obvious, overlooked.

Damar gets up and walks around lightly, finding his way toward the front entrance. And there it is, the coat closet. He rushes toward it, and then feels along the walls for a lightswitch, realizing that there is none, and what kind of house is this?

_This house is a danger,_ he thinks spitefully, and not just because people get murdered here. People could easily get hurt without proper lighting. Damar enters the closet, carefully making sure that the door stays open. It’s cramped, but that’s due to the abhorrent amount of tailored coats that no self respecting Cardassian man should need.

Damar crouches low and pushes aside some of the longer garments, inspecting the dusty floor. It’s bare exempting a cube storage box, which he leans forward and pulls toward him. Looking inside he pulls out stacks upon stacks of papers, which Damar unfortunately doesn’t have the time to look through. He replaces them quickly, and ends by setting first entry back inside the cube, scanning a quick _My dear Julian,_ before capping the lid back on.

There’s a shelf above the coat rack, and Damar stands up, turning his attentions upward. He stands on his toes, reaching his arm forward as far as he can, trying to feel for his expensive camera that he got on discount from a happily divorced woman. That is still one of his favorite cases, Damar thinks fondly, hand wrapping around a cold metallic object. He grimaces, standing on his toes and swiping the object down.

“Now, what is this?” He asks himself aloud, feeling up and down it’s cold nose. He weighs it in his hand, then tosses it up and catches it. He feels along the handle, a small click sounding as he pulls a lever on the back. “What a strange little toy.” He comments aloud, thumbing some kind of pivot-

An explosion fires the ‘toy’ from his hand, his ears ringing and his vision white. Damar swears, clutching his left hand painfully.

He should have stuck to art, he’s good at art. Now, his life is a reality holonovel, and isn’t that a novelty? Damar coughs, wondering what exactly he did to create this ludacrisy. This ludacrisy is going to get him killed. “Damar follow my daughter. Damar follow my ex-wife. Damar lend me your camera. Damar pick up my dry-cleaning. Damar go into an international criminal’s house!”

_Dukat is a fucking dick_ is the last thought that runs through Damar’s head before his world goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

“Garak, I just knocked someone out!” Julian shouts, truly distressed by his violent actions, and truth be told, feeling a little embarrassed. Hurried footsteps round the hallway before Garak skids to a stop in front of the scene.

He checks Julian up and down from the doorway, then strays down toward the man collapsed at Julian’s feet, and tries to mask his surprise. His eyes land upon the blunt object in Julian’s hands. “Where did you find that?”

“Oh, this?” Julian holds up his tricorder for better view, “It’s mine.”

“You had it with you this whole time?”

“I never leave home without my tricorder.” Julian informs him, sounding offended by the whole idea.

Garak looks at him skeptically, but let’s it pass, bending over to inspect Damar’s bruised scalp.  
“You knocked him out with your tricorder?”

“Stop sounding so surprised, I did go to Starfleet, you know.”

“I had no idea Starfleet taught tricorder combat.” Garak replies breezily, getting down on his knees to check Damar’s inner pockets. “I always seem to underestimate you Terrans in the most peculiar ways.”

Julian joins Garak on the floor, and runs a precautionary scan over the private investigator. “In what ways do you underestimate us?”

Garak pretends to think of the moment, “I underestimated your ability to lend me bad literature, your ability to misinterpret my hand signals consistently, the amount of hair on your bodies-” Julian swats at Garak’s head.

“Hush, that’s enough. I refuse to flirt with you while we’re hunched over an unconscious body.” He chides perfunctory, holding the tricorder a small distance, squinting at the readings.

“I believe the phrase is, ‘You started it’, my dear.” Julian chooses to ignore Garak’s amused sidelong glance, deciding that his time is better spent elsewhere.

He closes the tricorder with a decisive snap and turns toward his friend, “What’s our plan?”

Garak stops fiddling with Damar’s outerwear and leans back on his heels, “If you want me to stop flirting with you, you must cease with all of this flattery.”

Julian leans forward, eyebrows pulled together, “You don’t have a plan!”

“Trust me,” Garak stands up and dusts off his trousers, offering Julian a hand up as well. “The best executed plans are the ones that I make up as I go along.”

Julian ignores the proffered hand and stands up on his own, “Really? Because, that sounds like the best kind of plan to get us executed!”

Garak closes his hand and pulls it back, blinking his eyes in a way that he often does when he thinks someone is being particularly rude. “You are being much too dramatic.”

“I’m being dramatic? There is an unconscious body at our feet, a dead body upstairs, his murderer in the next room, you don’t have a plan, and I’m being dramatic? For the first time in your life, my dear Mister Garak, you aren’t being dramatic enough!”

Garak rolls his eyes, much to Julian’s chagrin, and crosses his arms, “I’ll have you know that my flair for the dramatics is one of my many charms.”

“Do those charms include finding a way out of this?”

He squares his shoulders, setting his hands on his hips, a long-suffering sigh escaping his well manicured composure, “Well, first we’ll have to tie Damar up again and hide him in another closet, this time one he can’t get out of.”

Julian, after a moment, nods reluctantly, “We’re just getting him out of the way for a moment, right? Until we figure out what exactly happened.”

Garak tilts his head in acquiescence, “Of course.”

He turns to leave and find some rope, but Julian catches his arm, “Just to be sure, we are not killing him. No matter what, no one is killing Damar.” Garak rolls his eyes in a way that says obviously, but Julian holds firm, “Garak, I really need to hear you say it.”

“I’m not going to kill, Damar.” Garak monotones, again attempting to pull away.

“-And I’m not going to trick Julian into accidentally killing him.” There is a pregnant pause, where Garak looks at Julian with the utmost incredulity. “Go on, say it.” Julian urges, with a small hand wavy motion.

“This really isn’t necessary-”

“-And I’m not going to find a loophole in this conversation, in order to make sure that Damar dies.” Julian adds, ever the lawyer when dealing with Garak.  
Garak tightens his jaw and clicks his tongue, “If Damar dies it will not be by my hand or coercion.” He promises. “Now, by your leave, I’d like to tie him up and stuff him in a cupboard.”

Removing his hand from Garak’s bicep, Julian smiles tightly, “Do as you like.”

He exits, and after a couple minutes of searching, Garak procures some rope and a set of handcuffs. Julian takes the handcuffs and fastens Damar’s hands behind his back, “Garak, why do you have these?”

Garak glances up from Damars feet, pulling the rope tight around them, “They’re not mine.” He answers shortly, turning back to inspect his work.

Julian looks up curiously, “Whose are they?”

Garak grimaces and stands. He walks behind Julian and crouches down beside him, lips close to his ear, “They’re Mila’s.” He gives him a quick pat on the shoulder and escapes.

Locking the cuffs, Julian removes his hands immediately, “Ew.” That’s an image he won’t be able to get out of his head.

He wipes his hands on his pants and pushes himself off the ground, Damar’s body rolling back to it’s previous uncomfortable position. Julian doesn’t often try to find sympathies in men who spy on his too old almost mother-in-laws, but at this moment, Damar looks pretty pathetic. It makes Julian feel a little bad for him, despite their on and off friendship. Julian supposes that it’s off again, ah well.

“Darling!” Julian snaps up, “I think I found a spot.” Garak’s voice echoes down the hallway, and Julian spares one last look to Damar, hoping to god he won’t wake up anytime soon. “I’m in the dining room.” Reluctantly, he leaves the foyer and winds his way toward the the dining area, which turns out to be slightly smaller than he expected.

“What is that?” Julian crosses his arms, and steps inside the room. The middle table is pushed off to the side, replaced by a standing trunk. Garak is gesturing toward a strange horizontal trap door that for some reason inhabits Garak’s tearoom.

“It was behind our standing trunk. It’s small, but it will have to suffice.”

Julian looks on disbelievingly, then shoos Garak aside to more closely examine the crevice. “Damar will not fit in there Garak.” He decides after a moment of thorough investigation. “There’s no way!”

“You underestimate what strategic molding can do.”

Does Garak know what molding is? Julian is unsure that he does, because there is no way Damar will fit in this tiny cubby, unless he’s liquified that is. Julian has a terrible thought. “You promised that we weren’t going to kill Damar. And I refuse to liq-”

“Honestly, Julian, your imagination does run wild. I suggest that we bring him over here, and I’ll show you how easily he can fit.” Garak nudges Julian’s calf with his foot, which Julian doesn’t appreciate, but accepts. “Come on.”

He stands and follows Garak back to the front hallway, “Why do you have a weird secret cupboard anyway?”

Garak shrugs emphatically, veering around the corner, “It’s Tain.” He replies, like that answered everything, which to be fair, it sort of did.

They return to the crime scene, and upon first glance, Julian is positive he won’t fit into that hole, no matter what Garak says.

“Shall we carry him, then?” Julian asks unenthusiastically, imagining Damar’s mangled body stuffed unpleasantly into the secret trap door.

“Hesitance doesn’t suit you, Julian. Just think of this as one of your fun Murder Mystery parties! Now, we can finally have one together.” Garak smiles obnoxiously, a cattish look that he knows Julian detests.

“I knew you still held that against me! I knew it!” Garak scoffs, but Julian continues, “And you know what, that was not my fault. You know that at the time I thought you only liked those trashy holo-vids my mum watches. I had no idea-”

The doorbell rings.

Julian’s entire body tenses, and he turns slowly towards Garak, “You’re not expecting anyone, are you?”

“No.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I know.”

The doorbell rings again with a force behind it that denotes some kind of harsh insistence that begs someone to answer it. “What should we do?” Julian turns to Garak, a note of panic present in his voice.

“I’ll move Damar into the closet, you answer the door.”

“But I don’t want to answer the door.”

“Fine, I’ll answer the door, and you move Damar.”

“I’ll answer the door.”

“Fine.”

They move into formation toward the front entrance. Garak tosses Damar’s limp body over his shoulder, and Julian looks through the peephole.

Oh god.

He opens the door by only the slightest amount, peeking out of the crack, “Ziyal?” He greets, not sure if her presence should give him relief or worry.

She waves pleasantly, and Julian cracks the door open a little wider. “Hi! Julian, what are you doing here?” She flutters her eyelashes at him in a way that expertly conveys innocence with the intent to murder.

“Just helping Garak...clean up.” Julian replies painfully, hoping the fact that he recently touched an unconscious body doesn’t show up on his face.

“Oh, I see. What for?”

“We’re having some people over.” He supplies, hoping that it’s just clever enough to get her to leave, “My parents actually,” he continues, lying definitely not his forte, “my dad just got back home from prison.”

“How fun!” Ziyal exclaims inappropriately, and pushes past him to get inside.

“It’s really a family affair.” Julian adds, reluctantly allowing her through, not really knowing why.

She waves him off, sensing his clearly splayed message of leave, and choosing to ignore it. “Where’s Garak?” Ziyal asks, hovering around the front hallway, sensitive to the fact that she had not yet been invited in.

“He’s in the kitchen.”

Ziyal seems to accept this, and kicks off her shoes. Julian lets this trespass by, a certain twist in her mouth that silences any protests bubbling up inside. He knows that she has to leave, but as he watches her sit on the side bench and pull out a pair of slippers from underneath, he’s left with an agitation that abandons all sense of security.

It’s odd. Julian thinks, as he watches Ziyal easily get comfortable in Garak’s foyer. The motion is comfortable, practiced, and Julian is suddenly aware that Ziyal feels more at home here than he does.

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Not jealousy per se. It’s just that there’s some kind of indecency to it that unbalances him, a certain intimacy is attached to the gesture that makes Julian want to stomp his foot and protest that it’s not _fair_.

“You said he was in the kitchen?” Ziyal reiterates, closing Garak’s front closet with a decisive snap. Her mouth is screwed tight, not unfriendly, just tired, a swirl of youth and exhaustion that gently reminds Julian of his own teenage years.

His resentment dissipates, leaving only some semblance of compassion that overrules any envy, any possessive thoughts that Garak would most ardently detest.

“Why don’t we sit down for a moment?” He places a hand on her shoulder, which she shrugs off immediately, confirming Julian’s suspicion that she is not there for a visit, but an escape.

“I’d rather see Garak, if I may?” This is more of a demand than an inquiry, and although she has already made herself at home, Julian notes that she is careful not to make an imposition. Ziyal is, after all, very young, and very conscientious toward her elders, when they are not her father, that is.

“He’s busy. Actually we’re both busy. And although Garak would love to spend some time with you, we have a huge dinner to prepare. So if you don’t mind-”

“Not at all.” She interrupts, smile creeping back onto her face.

Julian sighs in relief, “I’m glad you understand.”

She waves a hand in allowance, “It’s fine, I don’t mind helping!”

Julian instantly flashes back to Garak’s wayward smile, and clever hands as he procures two envelopes containing passage into a Federation/Bajoran cocktail party. _If you don’t have an invitation, my dear, make one_. At the time he thought that it was another one of Garak’s quirky, but deplorable life lessons. Now, he wonders if it’s actually some kind of Cardassian proverb.

Before Julian has a moment to protest, Ziyal skips past him toward the kitchen, which, he realizes belatedly, is something that he was specifically tasked to block. He watches her turn the corner before he has the presence of mind to call out to her, “Ziyal! Wait, just a second-” Julian chases after her. Rounding the entryway, he stops short behind her, who is at a standstill in front of a very menacing looking Cardassian.

“Julian.” Garak greets deliberately over Ziyal’s head, “I thought I told you that I wouldn’t be having visitors.”

Garak has a well crafted personage of a man who not only appreciates, but demands good manners. Julian understands this theoretically, but when confronted with Garak’s pristine condescending attitude, it’s application has had limited success.

“I thought I told you that Ziyal was too young for you, and yet here we are!”

Correction: It’s application has had no success.

The look Julian receives from Garak is both superior and patronizing, which Julian doubtlessly deserves.

“Julian tells me that you are having a dinner party tonight.” Ziyal interjects, trying to gain Garak’s attention.

It works, slightly. Garak directs his gaze downward, and intones, “Did he now?”

She nods vigorously, and loops her arm through his, directing them toward the kitchen. “He’s nervous, I think,” she whispers aside, like Julian is not _right behind them._ Quickening her gait, as though she can feel Julian’s looming presence, Ziyal continues, “He graciously requested my assistance, although I have no idea why, seeing as though you seem to have everything well in hand.”

Now Julian knows that Garak must see that she is lying. No matter what he said, there is no way that he said it _graciously_. Even so, Garak allows Ziyal to lead them back toward the kitchen, which is where they will no doubt stumble over a protruding head from a too small side cupboard.

“Exactly! He does have it well in hand, so maybe you should just go?” Julian butts in, walking awkwardly behind them, accidentally stepping on Garak’s heels every other stride. Garak’s sidelong glance informs Julian that he is both embarrassing and not helping.

Ziyal untangles her arm from Garak’s and skips ahead, stopping at the dining room door, “I will leave, after I make sure that you boys have everything well in hand. You said that this was an important family affair, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then you’ll need all the help you can get!” She enters the dining room, ignoring Julian’s shout of protest.

And nothing happens.

Ziyal just continues on her way into the kitchen and Julian is left in confused silence as Garak shrugs and accompanies her. After a moment, he follows them, and upon his entrance he sees the standing trunk replaced in it’s spot in front of the tiny cupboard.

How the hell did Garak fit Damar in there?

Julian is almost tempted to check, but Garak peeks out from behind the swinging kitchen door, spotting his human companion confusedly staring at where Damar’s head is supposed to be, and insists, “Later, Julian.”

Annoyed, and still a bit perplexed, Julian let’s it be, and takes his space by Garak’s side in the kitchen.

“Why aren’t you cooking anything?” Ziyal asks, once they’re settled.

“We’re ordering in.” Garak answers firmly, a certain tone etched between the lines that Julian would never dare cross.

Ziyal holds no such limitations. “That’s unacceptable!” She announces. “This is the first time you’re meeting Julian’s father, don’t you want to make a good impression?”

Garak glances to Julian looking fully chastised. Julian would laugh if not for the dead body upstairs. Garak turns back toward his younger companion, “Yes?”

Ziyal sets her hands on her hips, “Are you asking me?”

“No.” He resolves, conceivably selecting the correct response.

Ziyal doesn’t look too enthused, and proposes, “You know what? I can’t leave you two to do anything right. I’ll cook.”

Julian raises his hand, “That’s really not necessary.”

“It’s no problem.” She insists, already finding an apron in Garak’s far closet.

“Well, if you insist.” Garak relents easily, ignoring Julian’s outright objection.

“Perfect! You two finish cleaning, and I’ll start cooking.”

Julian cannot believe what he is hearing. “Ziyal, that’s really no-”

“Come, Doctor. You heard her!”

He jumps to Garak’s hand on his shoulder, and fusses as Garak persistently drags Julian out of the kitchen.

Once outside the kitchen, he twists out of Garak’s grip, “Stop. Stop that, you know I hate it when you do that.”

Garak sighs, and let’s go, hands held up in apology.

Julian rolls his shoulder in discomfort and sighs, “So what, Garak? Is she staying now?”

“What would you have me do?” He asks in a sharp whisper. “You want me to kick her out. Is that what you want?”

“Hmmm, let me think, yes I do. I don’t know if you forgot, but we have a dead body-”

“Quiet!” Garak closes the small barrier between them, coming nose to nose with Julian, “Look, in situations like these, creating a fuss is the last thing you want to do. Trust me. Everything is handled, noone is going anywhere. Just act normal, and let Ziyal make some food. Then, she’ll leave and we can finish the job from there.”

“You’re unbelievable!”

“No, you’re not thinking clearly! Damar is here, who do you think sent him, Julian?”

Julian stops, and connects the dots he didn’t think to do before. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Glad to see you’re keeping up, Doctor.”

“So, Ziyal is staying because-”

“No one will expect us to be harboring an unconscious private detective with Ziyal present.”

“Especially not-”

The doorbell rings.

Garak pats Julian’s shoulder, “Perk up, no need to look so worried. We are having a dinner party, not a funeral. When I invite him in, I want you to look nervous with a twist of that exotic human naivety I’m so fond of.”

Garaks eyes are bright and wild, an energy behind them that Julian knows intimately. It’s with mild horror that Julian realizes that Garak is _enjoying_ this.

“Perfect!” Garak leans forward and gives Julian a quick kiss. “The game, my dear Doctor, is afoot!”

Garak prances toward the entrance hall, sickeningly delighted, and Julian bemoans ever teaching him that turn of phrase. “This isn’t a game, Garak!” He shouts, absolutely sure that Garak will ignore him. He sighs, and acknowledges with some clarity that this is all his fault. More precisely, it’s some kind of revenge plot, five years in the making.

He should’ve invited Garak to that party.


	4. Chapter 4

Amsha is the product of a life made up of silence, a life full of last chances and unfinished business, a series of crude consequences executed into some kind of half baked person.

Someone who is distinctly unfinished.

It’s the reason why she and Garak get on so well, she thinks. Underneath their cheerful banter and shallow shared interests their synthetic nature transforms into something honest. Something real. It’s the way their eyes blink in fake bemusement, practiced and secure in the motion, the way their fingers wind around each cup of tea that they drink, a defensive gesture, stopping any non-existent hands from stealing it from underneath their grasp. It’s their unabashed distrust in any gesture of friendship or compromise.

“ _Compromise,_ ” Garak tells her one afternoon, iced tea in one hand, holding-fan in the other, “ _doesn’t exist. There is only victory and defeat. Every bargain has it’s price, and if you settle on a compromise, you will pay that price, and it will always be too much.”_

Garak has always had the tendency to reflect Amsha’s bottled thoughts and ignored promises, reciting her unspoken dialogue aloud as if she passed him a handwritten note. His mouth wraps around the words with such brisk certainty that the crumpled entry is all of a sudden _alive_ , stealing her breath to substantiate her held fears and broken promises.

It’s unfair.

He weaves around his own truth, his own mystery, just to unravel her own. She finds his process overly presumptuous and exhaustive at first, his gracious smiles and hooded eyes more alarming than comforting.

When she inquires about his profession, (with the knowledge that anything coming out of his mouth will be a ridiculous, well rehearsed lie), Amsha discovers the honesty that lies behind the enigmatic Garak.

He startles her, by replying _“I am a plain and simple tailor, nothing more.”_

She is astonished, confounded, because after a lifetime using silence as a means to hide her heartbreak, Garak accidentally divulges something that is not meant for her to uncover. That his lies are not purposed to trick or mislead, but his way of saying what he can not, what he will not. _A plain and simple tailor_ becomes _I am not who I was_ , and _I am nothing._

And it’s with that his conversation becomes another form of silence and restriction that Amsha understands. Garak’s obvious lies and even more obvious truths found their unlikely friendship, and precipitates their unlikely little family. With Garak, Bajor almost feels like home.

The feeling strikes her as strange, at first. With a marriage full of packed suitcases, and a folder full of shuttle run stubs, she never really got the idea of what home meant. It was always this abstract term that described a close knit family rather than a place.

It is strange to have both.

Two sons she adores and a house whose distinctive smell has faded away into a background of familiarity and _mine_. Garak’s vacancy leaves a small void in Amsha’s new idea of home, partially absolved by Richard’s return.

Amsha hopes that Richard likes Garak. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if he doesn’t.

It doesn’t help, Amsha knows, that Julian and Garak have made them wait for over half-an hour. Richard is silently steaming beside her, no doubt concocting some ridiculous tirade while they wait. Amsha bites back any annoyance as Richard non-discreetly checks his watch for the seventh time that evening.

The waiter stops by, once again asking if they are ready to order, shoulders dropping slightly when she informs him that they are still waiting on a party of two to arrive.

Richard gives an undignified snort, “Face it, Jules is still that teenager who’s embarrassed by his parents.” He reaches down onto his lap and picks his napkin off his thigh, tossing it on the table, “Let’s just go, he’s not coming.”

Amsha swallows her tongue, and keeps her peace, “A few more minutes.” She pleads quietly, threading her fingers together on her lap.

He crosses his arms and sits in steely silence, which is as good a response she’ll get from him. _It was easier_ , she thinks, _when I didn’t know what it was like_.

A lifetime of silent protests and indignant twisting fingers never prepared her for life with Garak and Julian, who both demanded her to speak her mind whether gratuitous or otherwise.

Richard would’ve fainted at the sight of her, hands waving, voice cracking in disapproval, finger wagging impatiently toward their little monitor. Julian brushed her hair with his fingers later, commenting dryly that he would never have been able to imagine his future like this.

_“Exile, Bajor, that was always within the realm of possibility. My mum yelling at my boyfriend to come visit more often? Never!”_

Now, keeping her silence almost hurts. And it’s with a startling realization that Amsha sees that she has changed. She’s changed into someone who unapologetically specializes her drink order, someone who makes quick friends and quicker enemies.

Someone who is oddly familiar.

A lifetime of staid indignation bubbles up as easily as freshly opened champagne, and it’s with this recognition, that Amsha wishes Garak was there, a light guiding hand to define her unfinished thoughts, to carry her unsaid burdens. _I’m being ridiculous._ She thinks, tutting aloud in self-annoyance. Looking at her husband through the corner of her eye, she wonders, _What would Richard think? I’ve made myself to be a woman whose only friend is her son’s lover._ Then again, it’s not like her friendship with Garak has always been easy or acceptable.

To have Garak as such a close confidant is a faux pas among her neighbors and hairdressers alike. She is no stranger to the backhanded comments over his previous servitude, the outright glares and fleeting looks of contempt. At the mercy of demanding whispers and pointed fingers, she didn’t have the heart to say that he both despised and lauded the attention. Instead, she simply related that Garak has left his old life behind him and is moving on to a new chapter in his life.

Now, sitting in a candle-lit restaurant, bracelet pinching uncomfortably on her forearm, Richard tapping his finger against the table in a slow agitated beat, she realizes that perhaps it was different than she imagines. Perhaps, Julian isn’t a new start for Garak, but a startling realization that he is not the person he thought he was. Garak is not the person that he for so long tried to be.

Perhaps his life with her Julian is not a new start, but a coming together.

Using a hand to tuck hair behind her ear, she leans down to her handbag and pulls out her mini padd. After typing in her home coordinates and service number, she commands the computer to send any missed transmissions to her handheld device, and wishes that Richard would take his mood elsewhere.

Most of all she wishes Garak was there.

The padd chirps, a little ball bouncing around the screen, begging for her attention. She opens the transmission and turns toward her husband, “Richard, it looks like Julian sent us a message.” Curiosity getting the better of his bad temper, he leans forward beside her, taking in the latest visage of his son.

It looks as though he’s in a transport vehicle, cramped up in a too tiny seat, his kneecaps edging into the camera screens tiny picture.

_Hi Mum, Dad,_

_I’m just messaging to let you know that Garak and I won’t be making it to dinner tonight. There was a little mishap at his house that we need to take care of. We probably won’t make it back tonight, so in case there’s any emergency Garak’s home comm line is number 63982587, Sector A subsection 8. If you go into my transmission log, his home address should be linked there as well if you have any trouble. Garak says hi._

A hand shoots into the camera’s focus and waves.

_We love you, and I’ll call again tomorrow. Bye._

_End transmission_

Just her and her husband, then?    

Amsha bites her lip, disappointment prickling underneath her skin, and immediately she wants to go back.  Go back to long evenings reading by the side table light, Julian lounging on the sofa, and her in her favorite chair.  She wants to go back to Garak sleepily retrieving her son from her side, suggesting that perhaps she should turn in as well?  Go back to quiet breakfasts for two, and tea for one.   

She see’s Richard roll his eyes in contempt, and this reminds her that while she has two sons, he only has one.  Nervousness twists in her stomach,  an entire evening just the two of them not what she had in mind.  For the first time she selfishly wishes that Richard was somewhere else.  Anywhere else.  

It makes her feel unmistakably hollow.  

“Should we meet them, then?”

She snaps up to meet her husband’s eyes, startled from her thoughts, “Meet them?”

“Don’t you want to see him?

“Yes, but, Julian said they were busy.”

“Bah,” Richard shoos the thought away, “you miss this Garak; we’ll go see him.” He reaches across the table and lays his hand over hers. He smiles, and in a quiet, conspiratorial tone whispers, “We have the address, let’s just go.”

Even after forty years together, her husband could still surprise her.

* * *

 

Even after five years, Damar can still surprise him.

The monitor’s buzz is off beat and annoying, only serving to progress his sour mood into a further state of vague disgruntlement. An adjacent member of his team cracks his back obnoxiously, twisting around, unapologetically moving closer into Dukat’s personal space.

And Damar still hasn’t brought his coffee.

He was supposed to arrive over an hour ago, with some popular Klingon beverage that is apparently ‘all the rage’ in the downtown crowd of Cardassian Xenophiles that Ziyal is most assuredly apart of.

It’s unlike him and mildly frustrating. Damar as a secretary is punctual to a fault, caffeine in one hand, pen in the other, constantly ready for new assignments and character building bootlicking.

It’s unfortunate that Damar decided to be late on the day that Dukat needed his fix the most. Groaning loudly, he rolls his shoulders, his back sore from slouching in front of his screen all day, eyes irritated from the screens vibrant glow. Flexing his fingers, he releases his joints out of any residue cramps and stiffness, then picks up his stylus and contemplates playing one of the little computer games he saw Alket playing earlier.

Leaning back in his chair, Dukat cranes his neck to see into his superior’s glass walled office. Communications Director Lavant Nyrak is lounging in her seat, feet crossed on her desk, magazine laid open on her chest...is she sleeping?

He leans back further to get a better look, and his chair buckles from under him. “Shit!” He grunts under his breath as he catches himself on his computer desk. Dukat rights himself and sits properly, maturely ignoring the small snicker from his right.

He taps his stylus against the computer’s touch screen keyboard.

Starting with a two-beat, he moves into a more complex rhythm, the music only partial to his own mind, his head bobbing off beat to the tapping stylus. His shoulders work themselves into the movement, and soon enough, his foot joins in with a quiet tap of the heel. Listening to the cadency of his meter, Dukat realizes with some form of excitement that he really has a knack for this sort of thing…

...until the stylus accidentally flings into his face.

Quickly grappling for the utensil, he sheepishly looks around the room to see if anyone’s noticed his blunder. Everyone seems to be quietly working, ignoring his general presence. Everyone, that is, except for the hand that shoots in front of Dukat’s face.

“I told you, three times and the stylus is mine.” Alket informs him blandly, now typing with one hand.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than monitor me? Like, getting me coffee for example.”

“I’m not your secretary. Now, stylus.” He reminds him, hand still interrupting both Dukat’s space and his patience.

With an indignant sniff, Dukat drops the pen in his hand. “I don’t use it anyway.”

Alket closes his hand firmly around the stylus, and drops it on the other side of his monitor, as far away from Dukat as possible. “I’ve noticed.”

Dukat overlooks this remark, and rubs his bruised forehead with one hand, the other inconspicuously logging into his pinion account. Slowly as to not gauge any attention he positions the monitor slightly closer to him and angles it away from his right-side companion.

He contemplates making an entry about boring over-invasive co-workers, before deciding to check up on Damar’s record. Dukat leans his elbows on the desk, covering his mouth with one hand, his other scrolling through his detective’s board.

Passing the silly pictures with odd captions that mean nothing to him, he goes over to read his personal entries. Regarding the first passage with some hesitancy, Dukat decides that Damar is as hopeless as he is lost. He clicks the monitor’s screen black, and swivels out from underneath the desk.

“You leaving?” Dukat glances over to Alket, whose eyes are still trained on his monitor, fingers deftly typing at a pace that Dukat is too old to ever emulate.

“I think my work here is done.” Dukat replies offhandedly, standing up to pick his coat off the back of his chair. He hears a small huff of disapproval, but the subordinate makes no other comment. “If she wakes up,” Dukat motions his head toward the glass office, “my daughter got in some trouble and I need to go get her.”

Alket shakes his head, “I’m not your secretary, tell her yourself.”

Dukat pats his shoulder in a way that is supposed to be both friendly and condescending, “Also, if any tasks get passed along to me, just put it on top of your little pile over there would you?”

“Not your secretary.”

“That’s a good boy, now don’t work too hard.”

Dukat goes toward the exit, ignoring the wayward shout, “I’m not your secretary!” A shout that is absolutely ridiculous in its very essence.

 _Everyone_ is his secretary.


End file.
